


Goodbye, Hogwarts

by Hagzissa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gryffindor!John, Harry ships Johnlock, Healer!John, Hogwarts Express, M/M, Potterlock, Ravenclaw!Sherlock, chaser!john, everyone ships Johnlock, probably demiromantic sherlock, well at least prospective healer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagzissa/pseuds/Hagzissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock and John's last ride on the Hogwarts Express. Sherlock is acting strange and John is afraid they will become strangers. Basically it's a lot of fluff with a little angst and a cute ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this some time before series three aired, so the way Sherlock is depicted seems a bit ooc in retrospective. But who could've guessed that he's a sappy cinnamon roll, right? Crossposted with a few alterations from fanfiction.net

John stripped off his cloak. It was a warm and sunny day; the Great Lake was shining silvery-grey. John, Sherlock and their classmates were waiting for the Thestral carriages to arrive and take them to Hogsmeade station f or the last time . 

John himself had never seen the Thestrals of course; but Sherlock’s description had made him feel quite grateful he this was the case.

Molly, a Hufflepuff girl of fifteen years, had sat down on one of the stone steps and started braiding her hair. John looked over to the Forbidden Forest and the rest of the Hogwarts grounds. He would miss this: the castle, the lake, the strolls right to the edge of the forest he and Sherlock had made.

The carriages arrived and he and the others sat down. Their space was limited; it was plain that the carriages weren’t built for more than four people. Sherlock was sandwiched between Molly and Greg. John could tell he was annoyed from the line that had appeared between his dark eyebrows.

 

Arriving at the platform, they queued in front of the train’s door. It was a remarkable sight; about three hundred students of which some were dressed in black cloaks, other’s already wearing their casual clothes. They were all dragging trunks behind them, cats were hissing in their baskets, owls hooting in their cages.

‘Where’s your owl?’ John asked Sherlock.

‘I’ve written to London,’ Sherlock replied shortly.

John frowned. Sherlock’s brother lived in London, but he usually Sherlock avoided contact with him like other people avoided Bubutober pus. John looked at Sherlock expecting an explanation, but his friend didn’t bother. They had reached the door now and while John was busy with boarding his trunk without dropping his cat basket, he cast a last look at the familiar turrets and towers that were Hogwarts castle.

 

‘I want a compartment of our own,’ Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, when they entered the train. ‘I can’t stand Anderson’s ramble about merpeople any longer.’

‘Oh, come on, Sherlock,’ said John irritably, who was used to them bickering, ‘You know he follows Sally everywhere. And Sally’s friends with Greg. And Greg is _our friend_.’

‘This one’s empty,’ Molly called and opened the door.

She was carrying her ugly kneazle Toby in her arms. John’s cat, a grey tabby cat named Billie, hissed in her basket, when they passed by. They stored their trunks and John took his seat beside Sherlock.

The train started moving. So this was it. They were now officially fully trained wizards. They had their NEWTs. More NEWTs than he had ever hoped for, if he was honest with himself. He would be starting his Healer training at St. Mungo’s Hospital in a month. How proud he had been, when he had managed to get all the OWLs he needed!

It had been all thanks to  _him._ Sherlock Holmes. A prefect had introduced them. John’s grades in Potions had been a catastrophe. And he had needed at least an E in his OWLs to become a healer. Sherlock had always been excellent in Potions. Giving private lessons was not an idea of his – his Head of House had forced him to do it, as a punishment for breaking the rules one time too often. At first, Sherlock had been rather cool towards him.

Despite Sherlock’s impatience for John’s potion-brewing skills, they had become friends. Better friends than they had ever been with anyone else; the bored Ravenclaw top student and the unlucky Gryffindor chaser.

 

Billie was lying in Sherlock’s lap, eyes closed, purring loudly. She adored him. Sometimes John had the impression that she loved Sherlock more than she loved him, her owner. John was okay with that, he knew the feeling – his luck with girls had been limited ever since he started being interested in them. Although he was well known in his house, being part of the successful Quidditch team, he had never been very popular. 

He had had some girlfriends; Sarah, his teammate and a Slytherin student named Jeanette. Somehow it hadn't lasted long in both cases. No, he wasn’t offended by his cat’s behaviour. He, too, enjoyed Sherlock’s company more than anyone else’s. He loved listening to his rather deep voice; there was nothing that could calm him down better after a frustrating Quidditch practice.

Sherlock’s love life had been rather  _non-_ _existing._ John wasn’t sure whether he was not interested in romantic relationships, or if he simply hadn’t met the  right person yet. It wasn’t that no-one was interested in him, though. Molly Hooper had been fancying him for ages. It was so obvious that even Sherlock had to notice. She kept appearing out of nowhere. John was sure that she was following them from time to time. Sometimes Sherlock seemed angry about her interest, sometimes rather flattered and even confused.

 

‘Fancy a walk?’ Sherlock asked after a while.

‘Sure,’ John answered and together they set off.

They were walking up the train.

‘The sweet-trolley lady should be on her way, by now,’ Sherlock remarked, ‘You could use a cauldron cake, John. You look peaky.’

‘I’m not looking peaky!’ John protested.

‘Yes, you do. Something bothers you.’

‘I’m just sad to leave,’ he said quietly.

They had stopped dead. Sherlock was opening a window. They leaned out ; the fresh air was making their hair all messy.

‘Why are you sad?’

Why _was_ he sad? 

It was the end of an era. His childhood was now definitively over. Oh, how he would miss Hogwarts! He would miss their meetings during the breaks, their talks in the backrow, their adventures when they’d searched the castle for secrets. That remarkable day they had wanted to take a bath in the Prefects bathroom and had met Irene, the Slytherin prefect, completely naked. John would miss to go down to the Herbology greenhouses together, listening with a grin when Sherlock was correcting a teacher and was told off, sneaking in the restricted section of the library to read in books about Dark Magic so horrible they weren’t even taught about in Defence Against The Dark Arts. Sherlock was very interested in the Dark Arts – a bit too interested, as Sally had pointed out several times. She, Anderson and Greg Lestrade all aspired to work for the Magical Law Enforcement. John had assumed that Sherlock wanted to become an Auror, until Sherlock had declared that he would  _never ever_ work for the Ministry of Magic. ‘If I had bad luck I end up with Mycroft as my boss,’ he had said. Mycroft, his brother, was only a few years older, but already Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic.

Yes, he would miss everything, from their daily life to their extraordinary adventures. He was afraid that with leaving their school, they would leave their friendship behind as well. They wouldn’t see each other as often as they had once. John would be living in London with his family for a start and Sherlock… John hadn’t dared to ask him, but he assumed that he would return to Holmes Manor that was now exclusively inhabited by his parents. Sherlock was not good with people. What if Sherlock didn’t want to maintain their friendship? What if he considered it to be  _too much fuss_ ? 

‘Sentiment?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Yeah, sort of.’

 

When they started their way back (John with a large slice of cauldron cake in his hand) they ran into Harry.

Harry Watson was fifteen years old and had reached her brother’s size a year ago. She had already changed into her free time clothes, in this case a pair of purple robes.

‘Oh hi, boys,’ she greeted them.

She was slightly out of breath.

‘Have you seen Clara? I lost her at the platform…’

‘No, sorry,’ John replied, his mouth suddenly dry.

Clara was a girl from Harry’s year, extremely pretty, with a short nose and long brown hair. He had a thing for her, but Clara had never been interested in him. John was suspecting that there was something going on between Clara and his sister, however.

‘Oh. Well, I better re-join Amy, Martha and Rose, they’ll be wondering where I am by now.’

And with these words, she hurried passed them.

‘Do you think Clara’s her girlfriend?’ John asked Sherlock.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock replied.

‘Yeah…’ John repeated with a sigh.

 

Back in their compartment they sat down. Sherlock was soon hidden behind a copy of the latest issue of  _Potions Parley_ . John joined in a game of Exploding Snap with Molly and Greg. Sally and Anderson had disappeared. 

‘They are – I think, they’ve gone… _snogging_ , you know,’ Molly explained in an undertone, blushing. 

‘Dull,’ Sherlock murmured from behind his magazine. ‘Speaking of: How’s Jim doing?’

‘Jim’s not my boyfriend, you know,’ Molly said hastily, ‘We only went out three times.’

She carefully added a card to the house they’d built. ‘I ended it,’ she added in a triumphant sort of way.

Sherlock snorted and then it happened. With a terrible noise the cards exploded – Molly let out a squeaky scream. The cards had left a cloud of dark smoke that only vanished after they opened the window.

‘Where’s your owl, Sherlock?’ Molly asked, clearly eager to draw off the attention from her embarrassing intermezzo with Jim Moriarty.

‘Not here.’

Molly rolled her eyes.

‘Alright, you’re not going to tell me. It’s OK; keep your little secrets to yourself.’

John thought about the little conversation they had in Hogsmeade. Sherlock giving curt responses was nothing new, but the absence of his owl was a bit obscure – Mycroft would fetch him at King’s Cross, so why write to him? Unless he hadn’t been writing to Mycroft… Who else did he know in London? John blatantly stared at his friend. Like so many times he wondered what was going on behind the magnificent stale blue eyes and those bouncy dark curls.

John sighed. He would probably never know.

 

He was starting to get tired. He leaned back, yawning heavily.

He must have dozed off, because the lights in their compartment had turned on and the window was now a dark square reflecting their faces. They must be arriving soon. It was only a short time later that he realised that his head laid on Sherlock’s shoulder and that Molly and Greg were both looking at him. Greg was smirking and Molly looked very much like her kneazle, when he was meeting Billie.

‘Oh. I… must have fallen asleep,’ he said sheepishly, not knowing if he should be feeling awkward or not.

He straightened up, clearing his throat. He was glancing towards Sherlock, but he was looking out of the window that was still open. What was he looking out for? There was nothing to see expect from the occasional blurred lights of train stations they passed.

The compartment door opened and Sally and Anderson entered, holding hands. Anderson’s shirt was tugged out and Sally’s blue tie was only loosely tied around her neck.

‘It’s freezing in here,’ Sally declared, ‘Why haven’t you lot closed the window?’

She was just about to do it herself, when something hit the window with a soft  _clunk._ It was a barn owl.  _Sherlock’s_ barn owl. Sherlock jumped. The barn owl fluttered through the open window and Sally shut it close behind it. The owl dropped its letter in Sherlock’s hands and sat down on the rack.

‘Thanks, Cesar,’ Sherlock mumbled, his eyes fixed on the crème-coloured envelope.

He produced his wand out of his pockets and magicked off the wax seal.

‘Is it a letter from Mycroft?’ Greg wanted to know, not quite able to conceal his hope.

Molly tried to suppress a giggle, failed and received a killing glance from Greg in return. She stopped at once. She, too, was now looking at the letter with interest. Sherlock ran over the page. John couldn’t read anything; Sherlock was holding the paper away from him. All he could do was watch Sherlock’s face. He was surprised, when the seldom-shown, but still oddly familiar crooked smile appeared on his lips. No, this letter was most certainly  _not_ from Mycroft.

Sherlock had reached the bottom of the page. He folded the sheet of paper meticulously and stuffed it in his pocket, then he looked John straight in the eye.

‘John, can I have a word?’

‘Course, but - ’

He was exchanging a puzzled look with Greg as Sherlock stood up and headed for the door. What did Sherlock want to tell him that he didn’t want to in front of their friends?

‘That letter,’ Sherlock started, ‘It’s from a Squib lady called Martha Hudson. Her husband’s in Azkaban.’

‘OK.’

What was this all about?

‘She’s got a flat for rent in London. I was thinking of moving there. And-’ He paused, staring at his polished shoes, ‘I was wondering whether you’d-’

He exhaled deeply, looked up and said with incredible speed: ‘You don’t happen to possibly want to live with me there, do you?’

John’s mouth dropped open. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.

‘Because… because you’re going into medical training and I’ve inherited Uncle Vernet's gold and, and…’

John was absolutely taken aback by this stuttering Sherlock. He looked so young and vulnerable, sort of. More vulnerable than John had ever seen him. John was tongue-tied. Sherlock wanted to live with him. He wouldn’t need to go back to his parents; his Muggle parents who had always been terrified of their children’s powers. He had been everything but happy to go back there. And now there was his best friend suggesting they could move together, live with each other…!

‘Can we afford that?’

‘So you _do_ want?’ Sherlock asked breathlessly.

‘Of course I do want, Sherlock. Believe me. I do! I DO!’

He almost shouted the last words. He threw himself in Sherlock’s arms, gripping him tightly. He could feel Sherlock patting him awkwardly on the back. The compartment door had flung open, exhibiting Greg’s grinning face.

‘You may kiss the groom,’ he quipped.

John and Sherlock dispersed slowly. They looked at Greg, they looked at each other.

‘No, seriously, did you just propose to him, or what?’

They heard a short outcry from within the compartment (followed by an annoyed ‘Calm down, for heaven’s sake!’ from Sally). Greg grinned even broader.

 

At this point the train halted rumbling. Sherlock, who had not been standing stable, overbalanced and only prevented tumbling by clutching John’s shoulder.

‘Ouch!’ John exclaimed.

‘Sorry,’ Sherlock said quickly, adjusting John’s cloak.

The compartment doors opened, students were flooding the corridor, all eager to be the first to get off the Express.

‘Well, we better get our luggage,’ John said.

Getting the luggage off the rack was a difficult operation, being wizards was no big help. When Sherlock levitated his trunk to the floor, it hit Anderson on the forehead. ‘Don’t think I don’t know that was on purpose!’ he said when finished cursing.

Sherlock smiled.

 

Platform 9 ¾ was crowded as always. The younger students were fetched by their guardians directly, those whose children were a bit older often waited behind the barrier, so that they didn’t draw too much attention to the hidden magic place. They stood there for a moment, facing each other.

‘Suppose we’ll see each other one day or another…’ Greg said vaguely.

‘Yeah, suppose so,’ John replied and shook his hand. ‘Take care.’

Sherlock was standing awkwardly behind him. Greg looked up to him and they both nodded slightly.

‘You coming, Greg?’ Anderson called, already a few yards away.

He left. Now there was only Molly left. She was fastening her cats basket on her suitcase. When she had finished, she stepped forward.

‘Sherlock,’ she addressed him, her voice shaking slightly, ‘This is probably my last chance to tell you, so - ’ 

‘Molly…!’ Sherlock interrupted her. 

‘Sherlock Holmes, will you listen! This is not about me being in love with you, or anything.’ She paused, glancing at John. ‘This is about me making sure you’ll be happy. Stick with John here. He’s the one for you. – Well, maybe not _the one_ , you know, I just mean…’

She closed her eyes for a second. John watched her with interest. Molly saying  _he_ was the one for Sherlock?

‘I remember the look on your face too well, Sherlock. Before you met John, I mean. You never had anyone and though you could have had me anytime, you were lonely. I never counted. Now you’re not lonely. I want you to be happy, so stick with John, will you?’

‘Yes, yes, I – I certainly will,’ Sherlock said confused, ‘um…’

He leant down to her and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. Molly didn’t blush this time. She simply smiled, turned around and reached for her suitcase. ‘See you.’

 

‘Wow that was one statement.’

‘Yeah…’

‘You kissed her on the cheek.’

‘Yeah…’

‘OK.’

‘OK.’

They started moving towards the barrier. There was already a huge queue, but they were in no hurry. This was the last time, they’d be here as students. If they should ever return then as… Well, as parents. John had never properly thought about that. He was now 18 years old. He still had plenty of time to think about parenthood. Maybe later, when he’d finished his healer training, when he had found a job, he would have children. For a brief moment he had the vision of himself, standing on the platform while the train started moving, waving his child goodbye. In his imagination it was a little boy, with dark messy hair...

 

Platform 10 was rather small and badly lit. The ticket barrier that isolated it from the entrance hall was out of order (as it had always been at the end of term since it had been built).

They were looking for Mycroft, but there was no sign of him. Instead they soon spotted a young witch standing beside the book shop. She was looking concentrated on a Muggle device, but walked up to them. She was wearing a midnight blue trench coat that wasn’t able to conceal her plum Ministry robes. Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea Jones – or that was at least what she called herself.

‘Mycroft send me to fetch you,’ she declared.

‘Oh, did he?’ Sherlock said bitterly.

He didn’t say more, but John could almost hear him raging about how Mycroft didn’t even bother to come in person, didn’t even bother to do something as simple as picking up his little brother.

‘Alright, I guess I see you very soon,’ John said cheerlessly.

‘Mycroft ordered me to bring you home, too. Watson, is it?’

‘Yes. But then we’ll have to wait for my sister.’

 

The Ministry car was quite impressive. It was a shiny black limousine that had been bewitched so that it was even roomier. Mycroft’s assistant was sitting in one of the front seats beside the chauffeur. They could see the back of her head through the semi-transparent glass wall.

‘How is it possible that the minister’s junior assistant has an assistant?’ Harry wondered loudly.

‘Mycroft is far more than junior assistant,’ Sherlock said simply.

Harry was sitting opposite them, looking quite pleased with herself and the world.

To sit in a limousine rather than in the Tube together with a bunch of smelly football fans and exhausted businessmen was nice for a change, John agreed.

They fell silent again.

 

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Sherlock after a while, pointing out of the window.

John leaned towards him to have a better look. They were in the town centre. The shop windows were shining and gleaming in all colours. It  _was_ a beautiful sight. The lights were reflected as dancing spots of lights in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock caught him watching and smiled. Then he looked out of the window again. And then, without looking, he put his left arm around John’s shoulder, pulling him gently a bit closer. John, caught off guard, didn’t resist, but exchanged a dumbfounded look with his sister. The expression on her face was not unlike Greg’s had been on the train, when he had witnessed John fall asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder. She looked like she was really fond of what she saw - maybe the way you’d looked at a baby unicorn - and not surprised at all.

 

When the car stopped before the Watsons’ house, John was a tiny bit drowsy and very relaxed. He detached himself from Sherlock, ready to step out of the car. But Sherlock had taken his hand. He followed him out of the car.

‘John,’ he said breathlessly.

‘Sherlock.’

‘What you said about moving together with me – that was _good_.’

He looked at John, a desperate look in his eyes. It said  _understand me, John, please._

‘Maybe Molly was right. You being the one for me…’

He held up John’s hand for a moment, as if he had become aware of holding it just now. John was staring at their hands, too. What were they doing? Actually, he knew perfectly well what they were doing. He had seen what happened at a situation like this, he had seen it a hundred times on telly. They were holding hands and never had Sherlock’s gaze been more focused on him. Those pretty icy-blue eyes were X-raying him straight to the core. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. Without saying a word, he stepped forward. His right hand wandered up until it found Sherlock’s neck. He pulled it down softly. He placed his hand on his cheek, his thumb placed on Sherlock’s prominent cheekbone. Tip-toeing, he put his lips on his.

At first Sherlock seemed to be too overwhelmed to move at all. He was standing still, his eyes popping slightly. John kept moving his lips until eventually Sherlock joined in. He bent over a bit more and grasped John round the waist. He felt a tickling sensation where his hands touched him. There was a warm feeling spreading in his whole body, originating from his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, utterly satisfied.

When they let go of each other they were out breath. John couldn’t help it, he grinned in a quite stupid-looking fashion.

 

‘You did it!’ cried Harry suddenly, who had appeared out of nowhere, and danced around them. ‘You finally did it! I’m so proud of you!’

She hugged them both at the same time. John was a bit embarrassed.

‘Get off me, Harry,’ he said, but he wasn’t really huffy.

Together they took out the Watsons’ trunks. For the last time that day, they said goodbye.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Sherlock called after John, when he had reached his doorstep, ‘The address is 221B Baker Street!’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
